Episcopalians: The Leftward Center

William Murchison

The modern Episcopal Church is the oddest of churches: scrupulous about
maintaining tradition in matters of worship and dress, feverish about rejecting
tradition when a given religious belief contradicts the spirit of the times.

The Episcopal descent into spiritual incoherence is one of the more
remarkable religious occurrences of the late twentieth century. At its
triennial General Convention, held in Philadelphia this July, the church
came close to scraping bottom. Much of the secular media praised the Convention
as moderate. The calm that indeed prevailed was due mostly to the inability
of traditionalists to feel astonishment at anything such a gathering might
produce. In recent years, Episcopalians have seen it all: bishops proudly
ordaining active homosexuals and an official church court declaring (with
more than a tinge of satisfaction) that no discernible doctrine prohibits
such a practice; general apathy toward moral issues such as abortion that
engage other Christians; disrespect for scriptural authority; sluggishness
in evangelizing; the trial and conviction of the national church treasurer
on charges of embezzling $2.1 million to support herself and her Episcopal
priest-husband; bishops implicated in adultery; seminary approval of homosexual
living arrangements for students; a major East Coast diocese riven by the
style and agenda of its radical bishop. Unsurprisingly, membership in America’s
formerly most prestigious church has fallen by a third since 1965.

In Philadelphia this year, the familiar pattern of swinging with the
times continued. A call to authorize liturgies for the blessing of same-sex
unions failed by a single vote, and the church went on to apologize for
shaming and mistreating homosexuals. Huge majorities in both the House
of Bishops and the House of Deputies rammed through a canonical change
intended to force women’s ordination (a practice the Episcopal Church adopted
only twenty-one years ago) on any diocese or parish backward enough to
object. Near the end of Convention, the Episcopal gay-rights organization
Integrity rejoiced over such achievements. "We’ve won," boasted
Bishop Joe Morris Doss of New Jersey (the same bishop whose behavior has
divided his flock into pro-Doss and anti-Doss factions).

Outgoing Presiding Bishop Edmond Browning, while hymning his commitment
to "a church where there is respect and room for everyone," got
in a few well-placed licks at the traditionalists. In the church’s "struggles
around sexuality," Browning brooded, "we have been diverted by
fear and, let me name it, by hate. And I have wondered if this diversion
does not come from the evil from which we pray daily for God’s deliverance."
Browning eschewed the word "homophobia," but the members of the
Convention knew precisely what he meant to imply: continued resistance
to gay rights shames and demeans the church.

This sally proved too much for Bishop Andrew Fairfield of North Dakota,
the lone dissenter from the ecclesial court’s decision last year that "core
doctrine" in the Episcopal Church does not forbid the ordination of
noncelibate gays. Fairfield said he felt "hurt and offended and further
marginalized" by Browning’s remarks. Some forty fellow bishops, out
of two hundred present, rose to their feet in support of Fairfield. One
of these stingingly accused Browning of violating his own first principle
of inclusivity.

The next presiding bishop, who takes over in January, is a man of gentler
mien and softer tongue than Browning. However, Bishop Frank T. Griswold
III of Chicago holds approximately the same convictions as his predecessor
on what seem to nontraditionalists the great issues of the day, gay rights
foremost among them. Newspaper accounts of Griswold’s election portrayed
him as a "moderate" and "centrist," rather than a liberal.
These encomia chiefly show how far and how fast the Episcopal center has
moved to the left. "What may be called the liberationist agenda or
human rights agenda has entered the mainstream of the Episcopal Church,"
as the Anglican theologian Peter Toon observes. "The major casualty
has been biblical faith and morality. . . . At the next Convention the
center will be where the left is today. . . . Those who are right of center
in 1997 will be the extreme right in 2000, fighting to keep some recognition
in the church of both traditional sexual morality and biblical names for
God."

True enough, in the election for presiding bishop, Griswold prevailed
by only 110-96 over Herbert Thompson of Southern Ohio—a bishop who, though
hardly a right-wing traditionalist, generally sides with the traditionalists
on moral issues. But the conservative bishops now number fewer than fifty,
and the rest of Thompson’s support came from self-described "liberals"
for reasons of friendship (Thompson is genial), race (he is black), or
just unhappiness, as one bishop put it, "with the machine" of
the Episcopal bureaucracy.

What happened on the floor of this year’s General Convention may prove
far less interesting than what happened outside—where traditionalists of
various stripes began to link arms. The resistance movement—the evangelical-catholic
underground—coalesced well in advance of Convention, arguing for a scriptural
view of the church’s obligations: gospel proclamation, conversion, and
a renewed emphasis on sin, without which the concept of redemption loses
meaning. When Convention voted for coercion of the four dioceses where
women priests remain unwelcome, one traditionalist observed, "I think
we should all be grateful for the clarity which this vote gives to all
traditional Anglicans. At least we know what our rights are: We have the
right to remain silent." (An impressive number of women priests argued
against enforcing conformity on women’s ordination. Opponents of the practice
published a letter commending their charity.)

Immediately after Convention adjourned, traditionalists assembled at
the Church of the Good Shepherd in the Philadelphia suburbs. Convoked by
the Episcopal Synod of America (an eight-year-old network of traditionalists),
the meeting quickly produced the "Good Shepherd Statement." Arguing
that the Episcopal Church’s writ runs less far than the church might suppose,
the Statement declares that "The Seventy-Second General Convention
has passed judgment upon itself"—refusing "to uphold orthodox
doctrine and restore godly discipline, while acting to persecute the faithful."
Without quitting the national church formally, the Synod declares "the
emergence of an orthodox Province within the Anglican Communion in America"—one
to be run on principles very different from Bishop Browning’s.

In the emerging province, however much presiding bishops and conventions
may threaten or cajole, the all-male priesthood will be faithfully preserved,
and scriptural standards for ordination and matrimony will be maintained.
The province is theological, not geographical (though it rests, practically
speaking, on the four non-women-ordaining dioceses: Fort Worth, Texas;
Quincy, Illinois; San Joaquin, California; and Eau Claire, Wisconsin).
The province may plant new congregations under the noses of liberal bishops.
As occasion requires, its own bishops will take under their protective
wings traditionalist parishes outside their geographical jurisdictions,
while the province means to limit, politely but firmly, the money contributed
by its members to the national church. (This last practice, more than any
other, may rouse the ire of the establishment; the official Episcopal Church,
already struggling with budget cuts, can ill afford more.)

There is no model anywhere in Christian history for such an undertaking
as the new province. But it may work better than skeptics think. The Anglo-Catholics
who preponderate in the Synod have allied themselves with friendly non-Catholics
who, even if they defend women’s ordination, understand the extent of the
national church’s departure from the faith. These non-catholics have themselves
joined together as the American Anglican Council, and near Convention’s
end, their president, Bishop James M. Stanton of Dallas, pledged to "maintain
communion with those bishops who, on the basis of their conscience, cannot
ordain or license women to serve in the priesthood under their oversight."
Talking over the bishops’ heads to Episcopalians unwilling to abandon the
historic moral teaching and standards of Christianity, Stanton said, "We
will not abandon you, or our determination to guard the faith once delivered
to the saints." He quoted approvingly a young woman who had testified
at an open hearing on sexuality questions: "I will stay in the church,
but I will not go against God’s Word."

Confusion will for a time beset and envelop Episcopalianism. Clarity
is on the way, even so. A "suburb of dissent" (W. H. Auden’s
phrase) has been planted inside the established city of the Episcopal Church.
The new development could be swallowed up by weeds—or it could spread joyfully,
invigoratingly beyond the city limits, coming eventually to overshadow
the city itself. One thing is plain: Well before Philadelphia, the contemporary
Episcopal Church’s style and relationships had become stumbling blocks
rather than aids to conversion and witness; something had to change dramatically.
Now it has.

William Murchison, who attended the 1991, 1994, and 1997 General Conventions,
is writing a book about the present condition of the Episcopal Church.